sometimes dreams can turn into nightmares
by because well - c'est la vie
Summary: You see, when you pine for someone who never notices you, it aches inside. For Molly Hooper, the aching gets too heavy so she decides to throw herself into the next relationship she has, mind, heart, body. Unfortunately, the next relationship she has grabs her with both hands and doesn't want to let go.


**A/N: **So, um, this sort of just came out - heads up, there's a lotta angst in this. Ye have been warned! And there's a longer Author's Note at the end. Ye have been warned! ...Again. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing you recognise.

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**sometimes dreams can turn into nightmares**

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_'The spirit of man can endure only so much and when it is broken only a miracle can mend it.'_

**John Burroughs**

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When he introduces himself to her, she's flattered.

She – Molly Hooper, thirty one, frumpy dresser, cat-loving weirdo – has never looked appealing to men.

Maybe it's her job, she thinks. Telling people you cut open the dead can be a bit of a turn-off, she supposes.

But he's talking to her and he's offering her a drink, and her friends are nudging her, so she smiles and accepts the drink.

His grin is so happy Molly feels her heart melting.

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There's still a soppy smile on Molly's face in the morning and she hums happily to her cat, Toby, as she gets ready. Thoughts of last night envelope her mind and even though some part of her aches, she's ready to take her friends' advice and move on.

He's such a gentleman, Molly tells Toby who mews at her. They're so rare nowadays but he dropped her home in his car and kissed her cheek.

Her slim fingers lightly touch her cheek, the exact spot where he kissed her, and a girlish giggle bubbles up.

.

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'You're really happy.'

Sherlock Holmes eyes Molly warily and before she can say anything, he continues.

'Your lips – they are fuller which suggests that you have taken the time to put on lipstick, meaning that perhaps you have a date tonight, which can be further supported by the fact that you are wearing newer, fresher clothes – ergo, date. But who with? Ah. Your friends, they pulled you out of work to go to a bar to forget someone you have been hopelessly pining over and you met him – he spoke, you swooned. Your hair has also been –,'

'Sherlock,' she interrupts. 'You can stop with the deducting stuff – I _do_ have a date tonight.'

Some small part of her aches for him to throw down that damned scalpel and jealously challenge him to a duel over Molly's honour so Molly looks at him carefully but Sherlock doesn't register her words and asks that she pass a Petri dish, calling her 'John'.

Maybe her friends are right. She does need to get over him.

(It doesn't mean it won't hurt.

But it also doesn't mean she won't try.)

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I thought this restaurant would be perfect, he says tonight. _For An Angel_ sounds more like a song, he adds, but it's pretty truthful, don't you think?

Molly blushes when she figures out what he's implying and before she can reply, he's already pulling out her chair for her and asking what she'll have.

I'll have the special, she replies slightly daringly and her fingers itch to be back in St. Bart's because she hasn't exactly been on a date in, ahem, _some time_ so she doesn't know what to do, how to act, why didn't she research more on this –

Then I'll have the special, as well, he says with a smile.

Maybe she doesn't need to research.

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Days pass in a happy blur.

Molly hums all the time now and Sherlock gets really frustrated but it doesn't matter. Make up is a common occurrence in the work place and her sense of style has noticeably improved.

He's so gentlemanly, she gushes to her friends, and he's so nice and oh my god, have you seen his eyes?

(Something in her still aches when she sees Sherlock but she's happy now, really happy.

Really.)

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And then it all goes _horribly_ _wrong_.

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He asks that she move into his house.

It's silly, really. To have such a big thing erupt out of such a small, tiny thing.

(It's more than that, something inside her whispers.

She's always known he wasn't always … _right_. )

It's the same all around, though, isn't it?

The World Wars. They started because of a tiny, little spark and perhaps that spark was ignited when Molly tells him that she doesn't want to move in.

And then she sees it.

The spark.

It glints and gleams in his eyes, dark crimson, and she blinks and it's gone but it was there, it _was_, and he's looking only disgruntled, not dangerous.

I thought you loved me, he says, annoyed.

I do, I do, Molly tells him desperately as he backs away.

Then why won't you DO AS I SAY?

His voice, so soft, so quiet in the beginning grows in volume until he roars in her face angrily and she trembles with fear. He's gotten hold of her, thick fingers pressing painfully into her arm and rests back on his feet, ignoring her weak protests.

It's hurting, she whispers.

Sorry, he says quickly and lets go. I'm so sorry, it was an accident, I – I lost – I'm so sorry, it won't happen – I'm so sorry.

Molly smiles unsteadily up at him and believes him. Just an accident.

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It happens again.

But instead of just holding her too tightly, he swings at Molly, one clenched angry fist swiping at her face, roaring in anger.

It smudges her make up.

And there's a horrible purple bruise breaking out on her cheek.

But it's okay.

It was an accident, he tells her apologetically. I'm so sorry.

And even though there's a ball of fear curling in her stomach, Molly loves him so she forgives him again.

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She's sure Sherlock will notice, Molly thinks when she enters St. Bart's nervously. He notices everything – how could he not?

Her fingers shake when she's pulling out her pristine trays and every few seconds, she checks to make sure the foundation is still there. She's been getting strange looks but Molly's so used to that.

Instead of Sherlock, _he_ arrives.

He's all cheery and normal and he's brought coffee so she laughs, if a little shakily, sipping it. Black, no sugar, she realises, almost gagging.

But he's talking, chattering nonstop, so she nods and places the disgusting coffee down as discreetly as she can.

'Molly, I've bought coffee – I need a body,' Sherlock enters the room, banging both doors open overdramatically.

He stops talking and eyes Sherlock warily. Who is this, he asks.

'Sherlock Holmes,' Sherlock tosses an uninterested glance over. 'You're the guy Molly's been getting gooey-eyed about. I see nothing too interesting but then Molly's never really been the interesting type so perhaps he _is_ the one, Molly. Mediocre job as a banker, left-handed nail-biter, and your darkest secret is that you like to watch Cinderella every Sunday night with wine and cheese and your gay best friend.'

He gapes and Molly bites her lip, blushing madly as Sherlock makes eye contact with her. Her cheeks fly crimson as she begs, please, don't notice, don't, please –

But as always, Sherlock sees straight through her and demands a body.

He eyes Molly and Sherlock carefully as Molly quickly does as she is asked, the cogs in his brain twisting and turning.

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Resign, he tells her as soon as she steps in.

So Molly does.

(That night, she wonders how many hours of arguing and fighting had passed until he'd silenced her once and for all.

She wonders how she'll hide the new bruises.)

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Time passes and with it comes new wounds.

He's angry, _always_ angry, things are always going wrong and she's always in the way. He yells, roars, screams at her until she's trembling with fright and makes her stay inside the house.

Molly hardly sees daylight anymore.

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Broken ribs. Fractured skull. Burns and cuts.

Molly has to change doctors almost every week but they all give her the same suspicious, disbelieving looks when she laughs weakly that she's _so_ clumsy, isn't she?

When one of the doctors get too nosy and starts asking questions, he smiles nicely and presses Molly closer to him. _My Molly's always been clumsy_, he tells the doctor, laughing.

Then the doctor leaves and the smile turns into a scowl.

He pushes Molly away roughly and when her phone rings in the middle of the night, he gets up, yells at her and smashes it with his foot.

Molly's not allowed to see her friends anymore.

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There's nobody here for her anymore. Not even Toby. It's just him.

Toby, her precious little mewling cat. Toby who warned her about him by trying to trip her up every night before her dates. Toby who was kicked against the wall by him because he simply mewled too much.

Molly thinks of leaving every day but fear of what he'll do to her when he finds her always pulls her to stay and she always stops before she gets to the door.

Besides, he'll know where she is. He always knows.

He'll grin that wolfish grin and he'll sneer at her and she'll feel herself crumbling once again, so weak, so timid.

Molly doesn't even glance at the front door anymore.

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_Useless._

_Stupid._

_Desperate._

_Pathetic._

His demeaning voice echoes everywhere in the house, tearing at Molly viciously, as Molly pads around, no longer bothering to hide the bruises and the wounds. She doesn't go out anymore so she makes do with a First Aid box.

She's not a pathologist for nothing.

She _wasn't_ a pathologist for nothing.

Molly doesn't look into mirrors anymore.

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_Weak._

_Idiot._

She's all alone. There's nobody around and she hasn't seen anyone else but him in a year.

Almost every night, her world explodes in pure pain, _agony_, fingerprints bruising her thighs, bloodstains matting her battered, aching body.

The finger-shaped bruises, the broken bones, the burned flesh sears into her and Molly cries into the darkness where he can't see.

_Failure._

_Thick._

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One night, one blisteringly freezing winter night, he's stormed in the house in a thunderous temper, demanding something warm, and Molly quivers with fear as she passes the steaming cup of tea to him.

_Oh_, she weeps silently, she _aches_ all over.

When he's snatched the tea roughly out of her hands, Molly tries to melt into the shadows but he's drunk it and thrown it away.

_Disgusting_, he roars. _Useless, lazy idiot_!

Molly trembles as his fingers itch towards the steaming teapot. Flashes of what will happen flicker through her mind.

_Searing hot tea, dripping, burns through her skin…_

_Roars, yells, swipes until she blacks out…_

_Waking up to an empty room on the cold floor, aching with the pain…_

It's happened before. And it'll happen again.

But it doesn't.

The doorbell rings and Molly, still aching with the pain from this morning, throws up a quick grateful prayer, almost sobbing. He's frozen because nobody knows about them living here, nobody knows anything –

The doorbell rings again impatiently.

Before he can stop her, Molly goes to open the door, limping because of her left leg.

'Greg?' she gasps.

She forgets the bruises.

She forgets the aching.

She forgets _him_.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stares at Molly as if she's a ghost, flanked by an array of policemen who surge into the house and seize him. His mouth opens and closes as Molly feels the ever-present tears swell up, moving absentmindedly to let the policemen in.

'M-Molly,' he gapes. 'Where have you been? We haven't seen you for a year – we've been looking for you for so long – what's happened to –? _Oh_ _my_ _god_…'

His eyes fall on the welts and injuries peppered across Molly's body and Greg's voice fades as he stares at her, aghast.

She's wearing a light, long-sleeved top and black skinny jeans so the worst of the bruises are successfully covered up but nothing can hide the bruises scattered all around her face, her neck, her fingers, her bare feet. Nothing can hide how much weight she has lost, how pale and peaky she looks, how Molly Hooper is a ghost of her former self.

A roar brings Greg back to the present and his eyes settle on _him_, him who has been overpowered by the force of the policemen, burning with a gleam of anger.

'You did this to Molly,' he says and it's not a question. 'She's been missing for a year, we haven't talked to her in so long, everybody's been going mental and – and this – you're _disgusting_.'

Molly flinches at the word.

Greg turns to Molly and his voice softens considerably. 'Molly, it's okay. It'll be okay. I've got She-,'

A taxi suddenly pulls up outside, interrupting Greg, and Molly's breath hitches as Sherlock and John get out quickly. The policemen drag him outside roughly and Sherlock gives a satisfied smirk.

'At last,' he mutters to himself. 'James Moriarty. Found you at last.'

James Moriarty doesn't reply.

'Sherlock –,' Greg begins.

'Not now, Lestrade,' Sherlock doesn't even look over. 'Congratulations on the divorce, by the way.'

John sighs and clears his throat pointedly. 'Timing,' he tells Sherlock.

'Bad?'

'Very.'

(Molly wants to cry at the oh-so-familiarity of the easy banter.

_Oh, she's missed them so much._)

'Sherlock,' Greg begins again. 'There's someone –,'

'Lestrade, tell me, do you understand the words: _not now_?' Sherlock snaps.

Greg rolls his eyes and turns to Molly. 'Hey, come on out, we've got to slam some sense into this idiot,' he tells her softly, offering a hand.

Molly gives a shaky smile but it kind of hurts so she winces and hesitantly takes Greg's hand lightly, trying not to put pressure on her healing fingers. A gasp flies out of her when she feels the unfamiliar cold air rush at her and she wonders, how on earth could she have forgotten London weather?

'Oh my god…' John's voice echoes in front of her, as he gapes when he sees Greg talking to someone he hasn't seen in a year.

Sherlock is behind him, gloating to Moriarty, but John rushes to Molly's side to help as she steps out of the house she has not stepped out of in a year. He exchanges questioning looks with Greg and shoots dark, threatening glares towards Moriarty, who listens to Sherlock's gloating with a lazy smile.

'Sherlock,' John calls and this time, Sherlock looks up with a snappy, 'John, if you are trying to pick up Moriarty's sleazy girlfriend, don't bother. He's been abusing her for a year so she's most likely too fragile to do anything with you. Ah. Abusing her with _everything_, it seems. Broken ones, burns, rape, even. You enjoy watching her squirm, don't you? Lestrade, you may have to find a therapist for her.'

'Sherlock!' Greg and John roar simultaneously and Molly trembles at the familiarity of the volume.

'Don't tell me – _timing_, again?' Sherlock tosses an uninterested glance towards the three and for the first time, Molly watches pure shock creep over his face.

'Hi, Sherlock,' Molly Hooper whispers, voice cracking. 'Sleazy girlfriend, huh?'

She winces with pain – two days ago, Moriarty had tried to strangle her.

Completely disregarding Moriarty, Sherlock strides to her and grabs her arm. 'Molly, what have I told you about relationships and you? For the sake of law and order –,'

'Don't have one,' Molly rips her arm out of his grasp and inhales with pure pain. 'I heard.'

But her breath is coming in ragged gasps now, black spots dance horrifyingly across her vision and agony is ricocheting around her body. Molly sways precariously but Greg grabs her before she falls and she lets out a scream.

'Please – no, don't,' she begs. 'Don't touch me!'

Greg lets go instantly but the damage is done, it hurts, it hurts, please, don't – it hurts, he grabbed her arm, he grabbed her arm, it's burnt from last night, she didn't iron his shirt right, it's burnt, so burnt, so he pressed the iron onto her arm to teach her a lesson, it hurts, please, it burns –

Molly sobs blindly and everyone's staring helplessly but she can't care less because oh, someone help – _the pain is killing her_.

In one smooth, impatient movement, Sherlock rips the sleeve from her arm and gapes. John stumbles, hand flying over his mouth, Greg almost gags, backing away and the policemen surrounding them wince for the poor girl.

The poor girl with the burnt flesh, the burnt arm. Her arm hisses with pain, seared flesh curling in the cold, the irate inflamed unsubtle burn covering the arm.

Molly continues sobbing and suddenly the pain gets a little too much and she recognises this; damn, she's gonna – she faints.

.

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Sherlock Holmes is an idiot.

Molly Hooper lies, fragile, broken, in Lestrade and John's outstretched arms and he stares at her like an idiot, wondering how on earth it could have slipped past him. He, who prides himself on his brilliant deductions, had the wool pulled over his eyes. Already, Sherlock's eyes are zooming in on her body.

Fainted before, more times in the last year than ever in her life, because of the recognition in her eyes – possibly due to the amount of pain her body can handle.

Purple-blue bruise fading on forehead and right cheek. Hit herself on a wooden chair last week, was pushed by Moriarty.

Dark bags under her eyes, suggesting a lack of proper sleep, gaunt cheeks, pale complexion contrasting with the harsh glare of the streetlight – she hasn't been outside in eleven, twelve months.

Tear tracks on the cheeks from a few hours ago, her cat is dead, diminishing fingerprints on the neck from this morning.

Curling, festering burns on both arms from last night, from an iron, obviously – Moriarty did not stop at just one arm. Doesn't know what to do with the burns, apart from running arms under cold tap and shoving a sleeve over it.

Leant on the right leg more which means the left leg is slightly injured or healing from something big. Something big … thrown down the stairs, bruises on head and probably thighs, hips, etc.

Obvious weight loss, judging by the way her clothes hang off her body and her bones stick out with a frightening intensity. Not to mention how the white top she is wearing is very slightly see-through. Shows more bruises, more wounds, injuries, as well as faint bloodstains that have been scrubbed in despair.

_All of these wounds have not been treated properly._

'Get her to a hospital,' Sherlock orders and John's already on the phone, letting Lestrade hold Molly easily, as if she's a doll. 'Be careful – her spine was almost broken last week.'

Lestrade's eyes widen and he bites his lip in obvious nervousness – perhaps, Sherlock thinks, it isn't a good idea to have the DI hold Molly; Lestrade hasn't been sleeping properly either, although this is because of his divorce and the case of the dead artist who was killed by the caretaker. Sherlock strides towards Lestrade and takes Molly from him, ignoring his protests, gently pressing the broken girl against his firm chest.

Sherlock cradles her carefully as Moriarty is taken away and glares at the monster with dark eyes that seem to darken when Moriarty giggles. He can't help but berate himself – _they were so close_.

Molly was just two streets away from Baker Street. All this time.

He'd even noted the new arrival last year.

_New couple_, he'd thought. _Girl, timid, fragile. Boy, boring, overprotective_.

Damn him.

_Damn him!_

Before Sherlock can get angry at himself, the ambulance arrives and an all-too-smiley, right-handed woman, who has two kids – one is getting bullied and the other is gay – and a husband who is cheating on her, gently pulls Molly from his grasp. John, Lestrade and himself are getting in the ambulance van when Moriarty's shouts can be heard.

'Tell lickle Molly that I'll be back for her!' he giggles. 'She was _so_ fun to play with!'

John, Lestrade and Sherlock have to be restrained from leaping out of the moving van and pummelling Moriarty to pulp.

'D'you – do you think she heard?' John asks Sherlock and Lestrade, throwing a concerned look at Molly who lies, pale, gaunt, broken.

Lestrade shrugs but Sherlock's watchful eyes note how Molly is stirring, how she _has_ heard.

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She's kept in the hospital for months.

Three months, seven days and forty two hours, to be precise.

Sherlock stays in the hospital for three months, seven days and forty two hours.

He is there every time Molly cries out for help in her sleep, every time she tries to smile for her friends, every time she looks sad when she thinks nobody is looking. He is there, in the annoyingly uncomfortable, too-small chair that makes his legs either fold under the chair or stick straight out.

Sherlock isn't good at comforting, no, that's John's domain, but he's there. He's always there and it makes Molly feel safe, he can tell from the way her shoulders relax and forehead smoothens every time she sees him.

He'll stay as long as she wants him to.

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'We're so sorry,' her friends tell her, sobbing pathetically. 'We practically shoved you towards him –,'

'Hey, it's okay,' Molly says gently, smiling even though her jaw still aches. 'You didn't know –,'

'You're being pathetic,' Sherlock interrupts, addressing her startled friends by throwing away the pretence of being asleep and striding up from the chair he is supposed to be 'being quiet' in. Ignoring the strict orders from John, he continues in derision, 'You are here to comfort Molly and here she is, comforting you. Nobody cares if you are behind with the rent because your boyfriend is going to propose tomorrow. Nor does anyone particularly care about how a bird flew into your car and ruined your window. Molly has been physically and verbally abused for a year – excuse her if your pathetic anecdotes do nothing to help her heal.'

Molly's mouth falls open and Sherlock can tell she's fighting back a laugh but then she frowns, registering his words, in alarm and she whispers, 'T-they didn't say anything to you guys about … about verbal…'

Sherlock gives her a smile. It's a different smile – it's not self-satisfied or crafty, like the ones she is used to.

'Molly,' he says in a gentler tone – he's been learning from John. 'It seems you've forgotten that I'm Sherlock Holmes. And deduction is my forte.'

Giving a small laugh, Molly rolls her eyes at him and says, 'Go on, then. Deduct, Sherlock Holmes.'

From then on, Sherlock deducts everyone who passes their ward, simply for her amusement, until she is laughing so much it hurts.

(It pleases him that his words can make Molly laugh so much.)

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Of course he knows about the verbal abuse.

It's obvious – how does everyone else not see it?

Her head is filled with worried, tired lines, her mouth is not tilted up in that warm, gentle smile he is so used to and she sometimes leans against the bed, gazing off desolately into the descending sunlight that dances into the room.

Not to mention the fact that she talks in her sleep.

'_Please_,' she begs in the night, '_not today, Jim. Please – I'm not useless, I'm not stupid – please, don't –,_'

The nights she wakes, with screams that pierce Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock is up in an instant and rushing to her side, at the same time texting John for things on what to say.

(After a while, he doesn't have to text John.)

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When the hospital is on fire, Sherlock is the first to notice.

You might say that he knew what was coming, from the way he stopped pacing suddenly, yanked on the fire alarm, gently shook Molly awake and carried her down the stairs.

But that would be ridiculous.

It's not as if he got a cryptic coded text in the early hours of the morning, ten seconds right before the fire began.

It's not as if a photo of Molly in the hospital with the words **_LET'S PLAY_** scrawled on it, found itself in Sherlock's grasp, in the afternoon, so Sherlock would have a few hours to figure out what was wrong.

Pfft. Ridiculous.

When John gets there, the fire is almost out.

'You do miss the most exciting of things,' Sherlock drawls and Molly laughs, but she still looks a little shaken as her eyes fix on the fourth floor window facing the east where there is nothing to see but debris.

John mutters to Sherlock worriedly, 'It was Moriarty, wasn't it? How did he know that Molly's room is on the east wing of the fourth floor?'

But Molly is looking too scared now so Sherlock tells her that the female nurse walking across the road is actually a man secretly seducing the doctor from the third floor and stealing his hair to determine their genetic compatibility.

Molly's warm laughter echoes loudly into the night.

It's one of the most gratifying sounds Sherlock has ever heard.

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The next day is the day when Molly is let out of the hospital, when Sherlock demands a freshly-healing Molly to stay in 221B Baker Street until she feels better. When John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson refuse to take no for an answer, Molly has no choice but to stay.

The next day is also the day when Moriarty's sudden death surrounds Molly – the papers are filled with thoughts of his death.

It is strange. A strange death, the newspapers say.

Why on earth would a psychopath kill himself, claiming things got too _boring_? Why would a psychopath shoot himself in the head? Where did he even get the gun?

Detective Inspector Lestrade turns a blind eye to the suspiciously gun-shaped pocket in Sherlock Holmes' coat when Sherlock demands to meet Moriarty, in the early hours of the morning, when Molly, John and everyone else is still asleep in Baker Street,.

He also finds that his donuts are so much more interesting than watching the CCTV cameras which clearly show Sherlock smashing Moriarty against the bars of the jail until Moriarty's face is a battered pulp of blood. There's also a lot of yelling going on and it's very clear but Lestrade can't really remember:

_'You will never hurt Molly again, do you understand me? You will never hurt her like that ever again.'_

The DI also doesn't see Sherlock speaking to Moriarty until Sherlock smirks and Moriarty blinks.

Lestrade also promptly develops temporary amnesia which makes him forget about seeing the not-so-discreet passing of a gun.

DI Lestrade sits back and relaxes in his chair when a gunshot echoes.

He smiles, when Sherlock winks at the CCTV, and bites into a donut.

.

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Two weeks later, Molly Hooper is back at St. Bart's. She's still getting the concerned, apprehensive looks but it doesn't really matter because she's learnt not to care about what other people think.

It's one of the many useful things Sherlock has taught her.

There's a noise at the door and Molly drops her scalpel, nervous until Sherlock enters, laden with two coffees. Her heart rate goes back to normal and she stops biting her lip anxiously.

'I brought coffee,' he announces overdramatically, passing her a steaming cup.

'What kind of body would you like, today, Sherlock?' she asks, smiling. Molly inhales the scent of the coffee and sips it. _Mmm_, black, two sugars, just how she likes it.

'Not today, Molly,' Sherlock says, leaning against the counter, drinking his own coffee. 'There's no case today.'

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**_fin_**

**A/N CONTINUED: **Okay. So I'm not actually a fan of Sherlolly - I know, 'why did you make a heavily-implied Sherlolly fanfiction then?': um, because it's ... to be honest, I ... well, I have no bloody idea, I just felt like it! I wouldn't actually say no to Sherlolly, but I like my Sherlock asexual, thank you very much, buh-bye Irene Adler. Okay, so there's a box under this. Yup. A review box. Would be really nice if you wrote a few lines, y'know... HINT HINT! :)


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